Friday, February 12, 2010

Charles Harmon

MANHATTAN, MON AMOUR

Their apartment in Tribeca near West Broadway and Trinity
Had a view of the sunlit Twin Towers, that bright September morning,
She had worked the night shift, awakened late with the crash and watched
The second plane hit, realized that her firefighter husband was already
Inside, gasped when they crumbled and she also was engulfed in a
Blinding, choking cloud of tortured concrete, glass, and steel.
Still she rushed off to the hospital where she worked as a nurse.

Eight years later she was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer,
Prognosis incurable, she had outlived him and their baby
Who had been lost to miscarriage precipitated by that toxic stew.
Both had been immigrants from opposite ends of the Earth,
They had met while standing in Battery Park gazing at Lady Liberty.
They had shared a dream of freedom and worked to make it true.
She died with a clutch of his Valentines in her hand.

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